His jaw clenches.
His fists, too.
He’s not freeing her out of love.
He’s freeing her so he can be free, too.
“Does that mean, if she dies …?”
“Are you getting fanciful ideas? You think if you kill her you can get rid of me? She is an angel. You wouldn’t stand the slightest chance.”
But he doesn’t know.
About the locket.
About the power within.
PowerIcan wield.
The ground softens beneath my foot likemossy sponge. My boot sinks. And I swear, something breathes on my neck. I twist around to look behind me, where shadows coil and crawl.
Rafe grabs my wrist and yanks me forward, this young-looking man who speaks of immortality like a punishment. All day I’ve been drumming up bravery, fighting back despair. Somehow, Rafe’s words, of all words, have bolstered my morale. We all wish for more days in the end. More time. But perhaps, in some paradoxical twist, the very fact that our days are numbered is what makes them so special.
The wrought iron gate of the cemetery rises before us. The Halloween party is in full swing—muffled laughter, distorted music, warped voices. Costumed teenagers flicker in and out of focus, smudges of motion weaving between gravestones, unaware that I am here, too. But a ghost.
We wind up the hill. Past the oldest graves. Toward the mausoleum at the top.
The tomb.
The arch.
The three symbols etched in stone.
They’re here in front of me, just like they were when the lightning flashed.
So is Twig, hiding exactly where he said he would be, crouched beside the twisted silhouette of a cracked obelisk. Inside my pocket, my thumb hovers over my phone screen, a message typed before I set foot inside the Vandenberg manor.
We’re here.
As Rafe carefully slots the pearl into place, I hit send and hold my breath, counting the seconds, wondering if the message will make it through. Rafe is slotting the ruby into place when it happens—a flicker of light blinks once. Just once.
Twig’s signal.
He got the message.
He knows I’m here.
And while his presence can do nothing to save me, it does everything to give me courage.
Somewhere behind the obelisk comes a faint mechanical click, followed by a soft whir. One of Twig’s devices kicking on. He’s planted them all over this part of the graveyard. Not just one weapon, but a supernatural minefield. A patchwork of sensors, coils, and pulse rigs wired with hope and just enough recklessness to make them dangerous.
Then another sound comes.
Someone is calling my name.
Rafe fits the onyx into place.
Something ancient stirs beneath our feet as Jude breaks through the fog, the compass clutched in his hand, his chest heaving.
